


The Fox and the Serpent

by Courtanie



Category: South Park
Genre: Blood and Torture, M/M, Psychological Torture, Reincarnation, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Stalking, Supernatural Elements, Vivid Grotesque Imagery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-14 23:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5762875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Courtanie/pseuds/Courtanie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his prime, the devil was tested by one of God's creations and it struck him down. Now, his son has taken the reins on his original mission, and that old enemy has been reborn into new blood. This time, God's will may not be enough to save he who stands eye level with the devil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: From Earth He Rises

There is a verse buried down in the book of John, hidden along in a long-winded debate between Jesus and the Jews upon the Mount of Olives; a verse that's nearly hidden within the tales of Mary Magdalene's exoneration and the Jews making their stand against the self-proclaiming Son of God. Buried in an argument long since forgotten of God versus Abraham, disciple versus child, a clear and simple truth rang onto blockaded ears, one casually cast aside for petty squabbling and ignorance abound. Within that group, standing on that hillside with stones in their hands, fingers gripping coldly along now-useless flint ridges, each word the man spoke reverberating through the redolent air, a factuality was brushed off as nothing more than a self-satisfying obloquy.

It was the work of a politician, smooth and seductive and slithering so easily off anyone's tongue. Misdirection was the name, an attempt to make the collective halt and freeze in fear in a 'realization' of the 'error of their ways'. These attempts have gone a number of ways throughout the course of history, more than once the group finding themselves at unease amongst not only one another but the man who stood within the glass before them. Sometimes it was like a jolt, a brisk push into clear-cut liquid ice. The world could stand still for those few moments, those junctures where every mind began to whir, every eye fell to the ground as though the sediments beneath them contained their answers to relieving their shame.

However, on this day, such was not the case. And regardless of who was right and who was wrong was for history to decide. But, pushing aside such arguments, forgetting the low blows instilled on either side, this much was clear: They'd missed crucial information dressed so prettily as a persuasion. One side brushing it off all together, the other only touching the tip of the iceberg, ignorant to the depths of truth resounding in his easy-going tone.

" _Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he speaketh a lie, he speaketh of his own: for he is a liar, and the father of it."_

The context of such a statement does its best to overshadow the truth, fertile as the ground on which they stood upon on that day. Father? No. At least, not in the sense Jesus had spoken of. The devil was nobody's father but _one_. And that one was not to come along for some time. But these core values of which the Messiah spoke of God's ostracized counterpart, _they_ were always in the works.

The devil was a _liar_. He was a _deceiver_. He was clever, ever-keen to the reality of the fallen Eden. Such ignorance within the mortal realm, however, for him, _was_ the bountiful oasis. So _easily_ he could slip cleanly through the populous like the smoke he had been sentenced to. Swathed in the security blanket that was their naiveté, he'd found himself on the battlefield of truth and kindness, more often than not the victor of the crown. From that first bite of fruit to the last drop of blood that would ever be spilt upon the earth in the name of darkness, he was to be the ultimate marionette that guided them along.

Occasionally along the way, he'd be pushed back down a few pegs. After all, light was the thing that had a tendency to break through the barrier of emptiness, it was a fact of life. Michael striking him down and Job persevering through his trials had proven that maybe, just _perhaps_ , he was not the all-powerful one within the everlasting battlefield of souls. Most powerful or not, however, _mattered_ not. What _did_ matter was the _small_ victories. The great contests between himself and the Divine Father could be seen clear as day, make people shout angrily of his name; Furrow their brows and stomp their feet oh-so-childishly, thinking themselves _immune_ from him.

But the devil never _started_ with the apogee. It always began almost unnoticeably. Tiny things like oversleeping through worship, a little extra payment used for just a _little_ extra something that one didn't really _need_ , per se. Then it would evolve over time, giving one a slight temper, a bit of a mouth when things went so drastically from what they'd expected. A barren spot of soil would no longer result in nothing more than a slightly cocked head and a small prayer to God, assuring Him that they knew He knew best. Now it turned into a scoff, worn, calloused hands clenching into fists, skin turning white over the knuckle as one attempted to keep their frustration to a minimum and went back to their other chores.

And then? Then it got _fun_.

That frustration began to build genially over time, began to solidify in one's chest. It was repression of the worst variety, embers beginning their embrace around the wood and trying to spring upwards and strong. And, in as little as an accidental push within the marketplace, the wildfire would roar into life. Sparks of light would break out into the sky, tidbits of ash burning all those within the gamut. It could take many forms: Yelling, crying, fighting, throwing stones or going to war. It was _all_ about progression. From there on out, this person who'd began so innocently was now caught within his conniving trap. Escape was nearly impossible, simpleminded mortals far too easy to vex, to overwhelm as time progressed and the world became more complicated day by day.

God was losing. And He knew it.

So the smoke still rose towards His pristine haven and He watched from afar. _'That_ _ **serpent**_ _,'_ He'd thought, watching follower after follower falling to the wayside. For too long He'd watched this, observing as time marched on, wars were waged, and Satan found himself growing in not only followers, but _ego_ to match. If there was one sin that the fallen angel embodied, it was _pride_. Such hubris over his simplicity resulting in the fall of so many, the way he symbolically spat on God's face and cursed His name, grinning that malicious way he did as he grabbed mortals to drag into the fiery pits on the other side of the cosmos.

For perhaps the first and only time, God felt helpless. His might still reigned, His authority still concise, but there was little more than sorrow as He watched His creations crumbling hundreds at a time. The counsel of His archangels did little to guide Him along, their ideas few and far between, far too preoccupied with the lingering anger they still felt for the demon who was once their brethren.

God had sent kind people, one after another, straight to the slaughterhouse. Each of them were struck down by temptations far too great to ignore, no one able to find the strength of Job residing within themselves as they were swept in the tide of fruition.

God wept.

Until He'd found himself in the company of a small child, taken at an early age by fever and hallucinations. Far too young to find herself in the hands of the dark shadow, a girl of not quite eight years. Meira, her name had been. Bouncing tufts of amber hair swept back under a glowing halo into a braid one of the elder angels had done just for her. She'd stepped up to the deity, reading the misery on His face. She knew why. _Everyone_ knew why. From the babes to the elderly, they knew the problems that their Lord faced, the tribulations He was going through, watching His children being swallowed alive by the snake as he slithered about. His appetite was never-ending, his venom forever lethal.

She'd stared at Him, at her Lord. Her face had been twisted the way any child's was when faced with the choice of using their voice. Talking to any other adult was trouble enough. But this was _God_. She would be taking on a responsibility that would overwhelm even the steadiest of men and women in their prime. At seven, Meira was far from eloquence. But she was ripe with hope, with light and the logic that only a child could possess.

"God?" she'd said, voice timid and quiet as He'd looked at her. She visibly relaxed as God gave her a comforting smile that He'd perfected over the ages.

"Yes?"

She had licked her lips, twiddling with her fingers as though she'd been caught taking a sip of her father's favorite wine when his back was turned. "He's a snake...right?" she'd mumbled shyly.

He let out a long sigh, nodding softly and putting a palm on her head. "Yes, he is," He said, watching her face go red with the affection and chuckling quietly under His breath.

She glanced up at Him, eyes shimmering like the clearest of ponds as a gulp fell down her olive-skinned throat. "I once saw a fox kill a snake," she commented, almost offhandedly. "Maybe...maybe one can get him," she shrugged.

God smirked for a bit at her, the innocence resounding within her that was once felt among _all_ His people bringing Him an inkling of nostalgic comfort. Then He paused. It wasn't a suggestion, it was merely a child offering condolences in the only way she knew how. But...she was _right._

To match evil with kindness, light with dark...opposites only got in the way. One was always fated to take the other, and unfortunately, they were separated by the thinnest of lines on all accounts. But to step _onto_ that line, to meet Satan face to face. No glancing over one's shoulder for the inevitable overtaking. No philosophical dissertation on whether light destroyed darkness or night was victor of day.

God would have to put that aside for now and try this new consideration: Fight _fire with fire_.

And so from the Earth, in a feat He'd done so long ago it was but a foreign memory now, He crafted himself a man. Clay and bone molded together piece by piece. The occasional angel peeked at His work before realizing just who it was they were spying on and scurrying away. His seven archangels were by His side, watching with stern faces as the creature lying on a table of light was built. Compacted, fair clay was formed, a body taking shape. Lean and lithe, a touch of delicacy about it with subtle muscle just barely cresting. Perhaps a scholar's son, the only exertion he'd experienced being that of bringing his father books and tomes.

God had a spark in His all-seeing eye, a rush of vigor over this new life. This child would be an answer, would be a light.

Granting him gift upon gift of craft and cunning, wit and rapport, the new life began to tremble upon His light. Eight pairs of eyes watched as a long, winded breath, the first air into newly formed lungs expanded a narrow chest. Eyes the color of the olive leaf fluttered open, obscured time and again by copper-tinged lashes. A gentle hand slid under his head, the healer Raphael sitting the newborn up on the table. He followed with a groan, fresh nerves beginning to fire, pristine blood rushing through his fair flesh, the clay beginning to soften from crust to dough; airy and smooth. Fresh curls slid over his scalp, forming in ringlets the shade of the setting sun, stark and boldly red against the overwhelming purity of white surrounding him. Locks crested over Raphael's hand, and the angel looked to God, seeing the approval within His gentle expression.

But he who was created was not a man, but a boy of perhaps only twenty. Too old to be afraid of the darkness which lied beyond, but too young to be so set in one's ways. The ripe age of rebellion, of smart-mouthed replies and a snarky disposition likely to take hold.

"My child," God spoke with a geniality of the father He was.

The boy looked at Him, green eyes widening before a relaxation swept through him all at once. He knew who this was, it was ingrained within him. He was the one to trust, the one to follow. He was the one who breathed into him, gave him _life_.

"I have a job for you," God continued. "Will you follow?"

As though he had a choice, the boy blinked, looking at his newly formed hands for a moment before turning back to his Lord, nodding silently.

And God and His archangels rejoiced.

* * *

Through the multitude of earth that Lucifer had crept, few held such a place in his seeping heart as the Mount of Olives; the _Har HaZeitim_. Once bountiful with the fruits of its name, now it lay nearly barren. Furnished only with the dead lying under his feet, compacted down into its soil. He often found himself strolling around the mount, once a site of stoning and public humiliation, now a _sacred_ landmark to the Jews who silently inhabited the dirt. It was almost a shame, but it certainly made his imaginations all the more real. Mount of Olives? No. Not anymore. This was the Mount of _Death_. Nothing but decay surrounding such a once-lively area.

A pity, really, for humans to hold onto _death_ as something so revered. Especially when oh-so-many of them had fallen screaming straight into his scarred hands.

He glanced down at said hands, wounds from Michael's heavenly sword, Triumph, still buried deep into his palms. The scars would never heal, just as this ridge never would thrive once again. Both it and he were destined on the same path: to do nothing but grow darker, _colder_. To make themselves symbols of nothing more than where the end laid.

Unlike the mountain, however, _he_ could change this appearance. He could shed the scars with a new skin, a simple ritual to undergo should he so desire. Shed so easily as his name was left in the past by all but himself. He was no longer Lucifer to the world. He was the morning star, the fallen angel, the Beast, the devil, Beelzebub, _Satan._

Not that he had many complaints of such an array of titles. More than God Himself, in fact. Certainly not one to take _any_ victory with stride, it was one of the things that the demon _relished in_.

A soft snapping noise caught his attention, lips curling into a grin. A mourner perhaps. Someone else to snag while in the midst of grief, send them into such despondency that even God coming from the clouds before their eyes wouldn't lessen their disbelief.

He scurried around towards the sound, gliding smooth as the morning tide. Coming around the entrance to a mined cave, he glanced to see a small redhead sitting against a broken, decrepit tree. Dressed in a muted rust tunic and no more than a white sash around his slim waistline and one within hair the color of Armenian apricots in the sun, he had to figure this boy was nothing more than perhaps a farmhand's son. A widow's son at that by all accounts. He was frail, the sign of one who did not labor in the fields, but labored in the home, perhaps caring for a heartbroken mother and taking on the tasks she was no longer able to do with the loss of her dear husband. Nine out of ten times he was correct. The devil smiled. Time to test the odds.

"You there!" he called, watching a slender neck pivot, meeting his eyes head on and grinning widely. Lost in seas of green was the clarity of a man who knew his purpose. They were always the _best_ to unravel. Young, virile, looking like nothing more than a kind boy with little to live for, he was a deer at the edge of Lucifer's bow. Lost in a trance of dazed tangibility of another creature before him, his string was ready to be released and plunge his arrow into the innocent sitting there. "You aren't by a grave," he commented offhandedly. "Are you a desecrater?"

"Far from it," came a smooth reply. "I merely enjoy the mountain air. Is that such a crime?"

An attitude. _Good_.

Lucifer smiled, a cruel, sick pleasure about it. "Not at all," he purred. "It's just... so _much_ can be done up here, don't you agree?"

"Hm," the boy mused, shrugging disinterestedly. "I suppose."

"Could bring yourself up a fine young woman," he continued casually. "Lie her down right here on the hillside and no one would be the wiser."

A skinny cinnamon brow cocked at the implication. "I don't much _care_ for desecrating land as such. My being here is teetering on such sin enough."

"Oh?" he questioned, brimming with excitement and stepping closer towards him, the boy noting the airy, weightless quality of his step. "And how is that?"

He got to his feet, Lucifer watching as he himself stepped forward, catching the same amount of smooth glissading and his lips falling if only a smidgeon. "I'm alive," he said plainly, thin arms spreading out to gesture to the land. "They know that the living is above them. Isn't that something of an insult? To literally walk above them as though I were God and they were nothing but worms?"

Lucifer paused, nose crinkling as he sniffed the air around them. The boy didn't smell of a home. He didn't smell of pottery, linens and river water. He smelled of grass and trees, he smelled of soil caked with heat from the afternoon sun. "What is your name?" he asked.

"Nuri," he replied smoothly. "And _you_ are Lucifer, are you not?" he continued with a shrug, looking at the devil with an almost _bored_ expression.

He straightened up just a bit, seeing God's fingerprints all over the fair-fleshed form in front of him. A test it seemed. A _match_. He chuckled deviously, "And if I am, what does that make you?"

"A man standing eye-level with the devil," he said, not missing a beat.

Lucifer nearly jerked back from the astute brashness of the boy. "Eye level? You better look again, Nuri. You did not inherit your father's height, did you? Then again...nothing to inherit when you're nothing but _dirt_ ," he hissed.

Nuri stayed perfectly stable. He didn't know exactly what it was he was doing here, God told him only that he was to confront Lucifer. Not to barter, not to ask for favors, just to confront however came naturally. Back talking the fallen angel before him? He imagined _nothing_ could feel so natural. "Just because I am not of your height does not mean we're not eye level," he countered. "Because _you_ are nothing but a short-sighted, hunched-over _fool_."

"Oh _am I?"_ he taunted, biting the side of his tongue just slightly, giving him a cocky smirk. "Short-sighted of _what_ , Nuri?"

He gave him a reflecting grin and a shrug, "You believe you'll win in the end."

"Have so far," he reminded him.

"There is still more good than evil in the world," Nuri scoffed, crossing his arms stubbornly. "Even on this mountain, I'm sure that of the bodies here, most were sent to Heaven, not swayed by your _arrogance_."

Lucifer grinned, light sparking through deep brown eyes. They reminded Nuri of the eyes of the archangel Barachiel up in Heaven. Nearly dark enough to seem as though they were encompassed in nothing but black. But Barachiel had a charm to his expression, a light-hearted easiness lingering within. This demon had no such charm, only a vile repulsion. "Arrogance?" he repeated. "Why, Nuri, we've only just met," he said innocently despite the malice resting on that face. "Just what could _you_ know of me? If I'm not mistaken, I'm willing to bet you were forged not days, perhaps not even _hours_ ago," he drawled, taking steps closer to the redhead, watching him remain steady as he approached.

"Even a newborn babe could smell the revolting stench of brimstone on you and know your purpose," Nuri frowned. "For one so 'deceiving', you're not very subtle."

"Subtly is God's method," he smirked. "Subtly results in nothing but doubt from whomever you're trying to influence. I prefer the direct method. People trust what they can _see_."

"I see you just fine, and I wouldn't trust you with so much as holding onto my sash for safekeeping," he said dryly.

He snorted, "Doesn't count if you're one of God's little missionaries. So tell me, what is it you seek, hm?" he asked, beginning to pace around the redhead, the wolf cornering his lamb. "If you succeed in...whatever this is," he waved towards him aimlessly, "then what? You have no life. No family. No friends. No love. What is your purpose here?"

"I am God's servant," he said sternly, watching him with sharp eyes that could cut like glass did Lucifer not tread carefully. "My purpose is to Him and Him alone. He will decide where I go from here."

"Ah," he nodded. "Shame. You don't seem to be such a type."

He hitched his brow. "Type?"

"The type to _take orders_ ," he elaborated. "You seem to be a free spirit. Named of fire and sitting against a tree," he gestured towards the broken trunk across the way from them. You aren't afraid to be _burned_ ," he cooed. "So why play so safe?"

Lucifer stopped and they locked firm stares, the devil looking for any hint of wavering in those algae-coated irises. He frowned, finding none. "I'm not playing safe," Nuri scoffed, arms dropping from their crossed stance to his hips. "My purpose is moot, what matters is who I am. Clay or not," he affirmed. "God gave me free will, same as any other man, and I _choose_ to use it to remain in His light."

He shook his head in disappointment, "Such a headstrong air about you," he sighed. "That's how it starts, you know. They start off stubborn and slowly drip like candle wax down to my hands," he held his out and gripped it into a fist. "Stubborn or not, it's only a matter of time before you break, Nuri."

He smirked cockily, "Same could be said of you. Regardless of paths, the result can only be the same. And if you believe that I'm to fall to darkness, then I believe the same for you. Only, your darkness isn't Hell. Your darkness is _losing the war_ ," he drawled.

Spine stiffening, dark eyes glazing over at the thought, he narrowed his gaze to the confident redhead. "You think so?"

"No, I _know_ so," he scoffed, beginning to walk, Lucifer matching him step for step as they circled around one another. One with the flames beneath his feat, the other with the licks resting softly atop his head in a halo of light. A grudge match, a silent challenge: First to break is the one to lose, no exceptions. Losing one's self in a mess of self-indulgence was the enemy, this was of dexterity and that alone.

And one was already teetering.

"You're terrified of it, aren't you?" Nuri continued sharply, thin sandals sliding through the dirt and kicking up small plumes as he glided about. "Terrified that what you're doing is for naught, that God will still win _regardless_ of your petty little games."

"Seems to me _He's_ the one who's terrified," he huffed. "Sending a _child_ out to do what should be His own work."

Nuri shrugged, "Perhaps He merely realizes that you're not worth His valuable time. Why should the shepherd come for the lambs when the apprentice has already rounded them within the pasture?"

"You believe yourself to be God's apprentice, do you?" he growled.

"He is my teacher and I am His student," he replied thickly. "I was _literally_ created under His wing and guidance. So yes, I believe that could be said."

"You know, He doesn't look kindly on false prophets," he smirked.

He rolled his eyes, "Perhaps you should take that advice. He's not one for false _gods_ either, and that's all you are. Nothing but a falsity."

Lucifer stopped, Nuri halting with him, remaining standing across from each other atop the eerily silent mountain. "I believe I'm as real as you yourself, Nuri," he challenged.

"No, because I don't sustain myself on the fruit of _lies_ ," he said primly. "You are nothing but a pathetic soul scrapping about, looking for _attention_. You feed on nothing more than people falling to your whim. And you call _me_ a child," he mimicked. "God is going to win, _Satan_."

The devil stopped, the arrogance, the _confidence_ brimming from the boy in front of him was overwhelming. He didn't _like_ being challenged, being told no. He didn't care for someone _defying him_. Not someone like this, someone crafted of earth and nothing more than a shell made to harbor God's insecurities. He was the _Beast_. He didn't take this from mortals, not from his demon minions, not from God Himself. Teeth grated, fists clenched, and a look passed through basil eyes that set his entire body ablaze: A smug look of _pride_. His own reflection in this tiny young man. Both crafted by God's hands. One a scarred mess from a war gone wrong, one a flawless messenger, nothing more than a soul sent to anger him. To _enrage_ him.

Well. It worked.

Satan snapped forward, Nuri gasping as he grabbed around his throat and rushed him back, slamming him against the broken tree. A glint of silver was all the mortal caught before a sudden agony burst through his chest, a crooked ruby-encrusted dagger slipping through the vulnerable flesh, puncturing his lung.

He choked, struggling to relinquish the hand from his neck as Satan grinned maliciously. "Not so cocky now, are we?" he purred.

He watched with a narrowed brow as a suffering smile crept onto Nuri's face. " _He wins_ ," he whispered, grunting as Satan jerked the dagger within him. "They'll know...everyone will _know_ ," he continued, air struggling to break through his throat, chest pulsing in a burning white anguish.

"Know _what_?" he growled, twisting his knife again, a long winded screech escaping Nuri's rasped throat.

A few moments of silence passed before a quiet, "You can be defied...you can _lose,_ " slipped between the both of them, nearly as quiet as the wind rustling the sparse grass around them.

Satan blinked, watching as Nuri began to cough, sparse spatters of blood falling onto his cheek as he stared at the life slowly draining in his hand. Nuri's tunic was soaked with the deep stain of garnet fluid, trailing down his legs and pooling around his feet barely touching the ground. "He sent you for a _story_ ," he said in disbelief. "Hope that works for you, Nuri. Knowing that you were nothing but someone sent to _die_."

He was silent sans increased coughs, his blood finally beginning to trail out of his lips, green eyes glossing over dully. Satan leaned closer, shaking him and getting his fading attention back on him. "You won't be the only one," he said affirmatively. "Whenever He starts to lose, another one of you is going to come. And I'll kill him, too," he promised. "I'll kill _every fucking person_ that He sends to defy me," he hissed.

Trembling lips curled into another cocky smile that filled him with a deeper _rage_. "Keep doing...this...and you'll always lose," he promised. "The hasty...always...lose," he screamed through gurgling blood as Satan lost his patience and tore the knife up violently, ripping through his ribs and sternum with a steady hand. Nuri's eyes went dull before it passed through his throat, slicing through his chin. Satan ripped his dagger out, scraping it against the mandible and panting with adrenaline. He jerked back from the boy and let him go, watching his split body limply fall onto the ground, slumped upright against the bark, torn chin drooping and covering the slit in his throat. Blood spilled like from that of a slaughtered goat, completely staining the innocent and the sinners that no doubt laid below him under the broken tree.

Dripping steadily from his lips, gushing from his chest, stilled heart barely cresting the corner of the tear, he was a sight to behold, one that painters would no doubt replicate. Or maybe they'd capture the moment just before, that smug grin over his face with a knife sticking out of his chest. Defiant to the last _second_ of breath in his oh-so-short life. Perhaps that would be the title: ' _Nuri Defying the Devil'._ No, no. ' _Eye-level with the Devil.'_

Satan looked down, brow furrowing at his blood-caked hand. He was trembling. He threw the dagger down, bringing his shaking hands up, glancing at the one that had been clasped around Nuri's throat. He'd torn straight through his own flesh in his rage. He scoffed, closing his eyes and feeling it healing with a simple concentrated spell. A shuddering, furious breath fell from him, and he looked up into the clouds, teeth gritting. "You _coward_ ," he spat, wiping Nuri's blood from his face, licking the remains spotting the corner of his lips. "Sending a little spoiled _child_. Well, keep sending them!" he screamed. "Tell your fucking stories all you want! I'll fucking kill anyone you give me," he promised, pointing at Nuri with a shaking hand. "He got it _easy_. Next one? The next one will _turn_ on you before I fucking gut him! He'll be _mine_ , do you understand me?!" He panted angrily, shaking his head at the resounding silence and looking back at his victim sternly. "Consider yourself fortunate," he muttered to the corpse, bending and grabbing his dagger, shoving it back into its sheath on his waist. "The first is always the easiest to go."

He turned and walked away, down and far from the Mount of Olives. He never returned again, never knew what became of Nuri's body. And he didn't want to know.

Time passed, civilizations fell and grew. He himself resigned to residing in Hell, only sparsely going up to the surface world when it felt necessary; a rarity as the modern world spawned above him. Whether it was Nuri's story or not, the world had shifted. He was nothing more than a story, a folklore. Something told to children to make them behave, never a viable threat. But that didn't matter. With the centuries came age, even for a deity. And with age, came a tired bitterness. All he wanted was for that smirk to stop following him through the ages, for his own confidence to be renewed after staring down such a _weakling_.

But, it never did. The fox had swallowed the serpent whole.

However, as he sat across the room from the noirette he'd raised for over twenty years, crafted from brimstone just as Nuri had been crafted from clay, a renewed hope flourished within him. Within his child, he saw that spark, that same spark of confidence and arrogance that Nuri had so long ago taunted him for.

Now suited in a body fit for a demon, red flesh and horns and all, he could see the future in his son's eyes. The clock was ticking, and the world was slowly going back to the ways of before. Where his name was synonymous with fear, where people were beginning to fall back into their ways and sin was considered to be the norm.

He'd felt it soon after Damien had been spawned, only a few months in fact, a little crying demon not taking his attention as something within him struck with a familiar dread. That familiar presence was back on Earth. He himself? He was far beyond those matters, regardless of the constant dreams of those leaf-green eyes staring him down so ferociously over the eons.

Damien? He was not. He'd become what his father once had been, he was ready to take his steps into securing revenge for his father's honor, restoring the power to his name.

And the time was finally settling, the reality meeting its apex. The world was at its lowest, the devil was in the wings, and Nuri was back.


	2. The World Lies in Power

Nestled in the confines of middle-class white-bread suburbia is where he belonged, he thought, watching the television at the front of the room flicker with life. Green eyes glazed over in a mess of sadness and millennial indifference. News bulletins paraded across the screen, a complete jumble of events happening throughout the world that seemed to mesh together into one conglomerate problem. Death tolls in America were rising, gun sales skyrocketing along with it. A failing economy was plunging more than half of Europe into desperation. Famine epidemics still reigned in Africa, an environmental crisis was ever-expanding in Asia.

In short, he was finding within just an hour's broadcast, the world was simply fucked.

Slender fingers mindlessly clutched around a glass of sweet tea, running through condensation and dripping chillingly down to his knuckle as he took a long, savory sip. The noise of the middle-aged anchor staring at him past the glass was fading softly into the background, his mind going steadily out of focus as a bleary tiredness began to seep into his bones. He glanced at his drink, lips twisting. Damn sugar wasn't helping a goddamn bit.

He sighed, setting down his glass and scratching up through thick red hair and hopping onto his feet. He genially trudged his way into his kitchen, mechanically beginning to start himself up a pot of coffee. He quietly measured out a good seven scoops of French roast into the filter, filling the percolator and letting it close with a gentle _thwack_ that resounded through the tiled room. He set the machine to brew, turning from it as it beeped its confirmation and looking down at his counter with tired eyes.

"Hey you," a gentle, husky voice cooed as arms wrapped around his waist.

A smile fell onto his lips, leaning his head back onto a broad shoulder resting behind him and finding himself lost in stray blonde hair. "Hey," he retorted, stealing a kiss from the boy holding him. "Headache feelin' better?"

The blonde smirked and nodded. "Though... I'd be much better waking up next to you," he purred.

He rolled his eyes, "Kenny, stop being a homo."

"Fuck you, you'd be _lost_ if I wasn't a homo," he scoffed in play, smacking his head lightly. "You know you can't get enough of dis body, Kyle," he teased, pressing his hips against his backside pointedly.

Kyle groaned, shoving him away and ignoring the absolutely pathetic pout falling over his boyfriend's face. "I have better reserve than you seem to think I do."

Ken grinned, moving over and leaning against the counter, crossing his arms and shrugging dismissively. "You know, you always say that, but then I take off my shirt and you're practically _falling_ on your knees," he stuck out his tongue.

Kyle took his turn to pout, gently kicking Kenny's shin and scoffing at him dramatically whining and hopping around like a child. "If you _want_ me to stop doing that, then I will," he drawled. "I have no problems finding someone _else_ to fuck if you're gonna be a dick."

"Wow. Fuckin' _harsh_ ," he frowned.

The redhead shrugged, "Well, stop being a douche and I won't have to aim for the balls."

Kenny smirked, sliding up next to him once again and kissing his ear lightly, Kyle trying and failing to hide a crooked grin. "Look at you, Dirty Boy," he husked. "Balls and dick always on the mind, ain't they?"

"Hm, maybe," he chuckled, head leaning askew as Kenny traced wet lips down his face towards his neck and sighing contentedly. His hand traced up, lacing his fingers through sandy hair mussed from his impromptu nap and smiling at the scent of a sleepy Kenny invading his senses. It was his morning greeting, something that made him yearn to go lead him to huddle down under their covers and give each other their routine 'good morning' hickeys before going on their separate ways to get ready for the day.

Kenny seemed to read his mind, fingers ghosting over his stomach and up his chest, curling his index finger to brush the back of his nail over the hours-old red splotch still standing oh-so-wonderfully against his pale skin. He smiled hazily, continuing to brush over his work of art, practically feeling Kyle's own teeth marks on his skin heating up with the reminder. "One of these days someone's gonna say I beat ya," he remarked, kissing his jugular with a firm peck.

"Let 'em," he sighed, turning his head and brushing his lips over his temple. "Then I can show 'em how I'm able to fucking throw you."

"You did _once_ ," he scoffed, flicking his head. "And that didn't _count._ You had fucking drunk strength and I was fucking falling off a damn roof. Adrenaline and vodka don't equal _tough_ , Ky."

"No, but me breaking your nose for _doubting my abilities_ equals tough," he scowled, pulling away from the blonde to his discontent and walking back over to his coffeepot. He watched the drink steadily dripping down in amber splashes, fingers drumming against the counter.

Kyle grunted as Kenny wrapped himself back around him, peppering his neck and grinning against him sillily. "I know you're tough, Babe. And isn't that all that matters?"

He snorted lightly, "Fuck you, I have a reputation to uphold." Kenny just rolled his eyes in amusement, continuing to nestle down closer into the shorter and swing him around lightly. Kyle couldn't help but smile lovingly, not letting Kenny see as best as he could manage. He loved when the blonde got like this after he woke up. He dropped the majority of his asshole backwash hick persona and turned into what Kyle could only equate as a golden retriever, wanting nothing more than to smother his boyfriend in adoration and saliva in every way he could possibly manage.

They continued standing in silence, just enjoying the warmth basking off of the other before the television blurted out the trademarked jingle for a special emergency report. They narrowed their eyes, glancing at each other for a moment before turning and heading back to walk into the living room, still attached to each other. They stood behind the couch, eyes locked on the screen and widening as they watched chaos erupting from the pictures. People screaming in panic, ambulances blaring and lights gleaming through the cameras.

"Holy shit, where is that?" Kenny asked, leaning his head down on Kyle's shoulder.

Kyle's sharp eye caught a flash of Hebrew sprawled on the rushing vehicle and his mouth dropped, chest twisting something awful. "Somewhere in Israel," he relayed. A flash of text sprawled across the screen reading _'Tel Aviv - Live Feed'_. "Oh shit," Kyle murmured.

They both flinched back as the television flashed with a bright explosion in the corner of the lens' view, the camera swiveled to catch the action, a fireball flooding up into the evening sky from across the world. _"Tel Aviv is in the midst of attack by a terrorism group yet to be confirmed,"_ a voiceover appeared, tone steady and sure unlike the poor cameraman caught in the midst of the assault. _"Three different bombing locations have been confirmed, city on lockdown and citizens urged to remain indoors."_

"Jesus fucking Christ," Kyle winced, rubbing his arms uncomfortably.

"Who the fuck is going after them?" Kenny bit his lip, squeezing his boyfriend a little tighter.

The redhead shrugged, "I mean, I can _guess_ where fingers are pointed... But I don't know. It's all up in the air for now. Guess we'll have to wait and see." They both placed their hands over their mouths, watching the feed showcase the window of a synagogue bursting into millions of glass shards illuminated by firelight and flying into the street onto citizens falling from the blast.

"The fuck does Tel Aviv have?" Kenny questioned, wrapping his arm more firmly around Kyle's waist protectively.

"People. A _lot_ of people," he murmured from behind his hand, shaking his head softly. He jerked as his pocket started vibrating, slowly slipping his hand down and grabbing his phone from its confines, He kept his eyes locked on the television, not catching the caller ID as he swiped it open. "Hello?"

" _Kyle? Kyle, are you watching the news?!"_ a voice was nearly shrieking.

"Y-yeah, Ma," he answered with a gulp.

The woman sounded beside herself, Kyle able to hear her frantically scratching against her hair as she tended to do when stressed. _"This is awful!"_

"I know," he said, trying to make his voice remain calm, "Ma, you have to breathe. We've seen this kind of stuff before."

" _That doesn't make it easier, Kyle!"_ she snapped.

He winced, nodding guiltily, "I know." He took a shuddery breath, looking from Kenny back to the television and his jaw trembling. "I'm on my way," he decided, hanging up the phone and shoving it into his pocket, breaking out of Kenny's grip and heading for the door.

"Hang on," Kenny said. "I'll go with you." Kyle nodded, watching Kenny running back into the kitchen to shut off the coffeepot and snag his keys off the table. He hurried back out and grabbed Kyle's shaking hand, leading him outside and slamming the door behind them, ushering him to their truck. Kyle clambered into the passenger side as Kenny rushed to his own, his own stomach twisting worriedly. He'd seen the Broflovskis in situations like this before, the lot of them needing to be near each other to watch the events unfurl less it become nothing but a screaming match over the phone. Kenny bit his cheek, seeing Kyle's hand curling around the handlebar on his door, knuckles blaring white as he quickly kicked on the ignition and whipped the truck out of their driveway, speeding the short way to Kyle's childhood home.

The blonde gulped, "Ky? Ky, you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said blankly. "Just... You feel so helpless when it's like this, you know?"

He nodded, though, truth be told, he hadn't the slightest idea how they felt. He didn't have any kind of connection to his thick Irish-Catholic ancestry, much less any damn family members that resided there. Attacks against the Emerald Isle would do nothing for him but make him pity the poor people trapped in the situation, just as he felt now. But the Broflovskis had _been there._ They had sparse family members over any number at a time exploring their heritage.

"Is anyone in your family in Tel Aviv?" he questioned worriedly.

"I... I don't think so," he answered. "We tend to stay out of the bigger cities." Kenny nodded again, taking a long breath as he made a sharp turn heading towards their old neighborhoods. A brief consideration to leave Kyle with his family and give them their space came and went, knowing well enough he'd send himself into a damn nerve-wrecked disaster worrying over Kyle. Besides, if Kyle didn't _want_ him there, he would have told him to stay home and not worry about getting him to his family.

"Hey," he said, gripping his hand with his own and stroking over his skin with his thumb. "I'm here."

"I know," he murmured gratefully, turning his hand and linking their fingers together. "This probably seems ridiculous to you, I just-"

"It's _not_ ," he assured him firmly. "Ky, I don't know what you're going through right now, but it's not ridiculous, all right?"

He gave him a meek smile and shrug, gripping his hand a little tighter. "I can't explain it. It's just one of those situations where I'm away from the situation by about a million degrees of separation, but it still feels... I don't know... _close_ ," he said tiredly.

He shrugged, "It's your heritage, Dude. It's important to you. Nothing wrong with that."

Kyle nodded silently, just squeezing him again. A sliver of warmth from Kenny's attempted understanding overshadowed the pure dread for the slightest of moments and he took a shuddery breath, watching houses as they passed them by. He felt as though he were stuck in a surreal reality, not quite able to comprehend just why he felt as much of a foreboding feeling as he did. These situations had a tendency to bring it out in him, lost in a complete haze where he wasn't entirely sure if what he was hearing and seeing was accurate or if his mind was merely creating scenarios for him to fill gaps of his subconscious.

They stayed quiet and tensed until Kenny whipped the truck into the cracked driveway, both of them throwing off their seat belts and dashing towards the door.

"Kyle!" a voice caught them, both halting and turning to see Stan hurrying towards them worriedly. "Dude, figured you show up here eventually. You okay?"

He nodded, "I'm fine, come on," he jerked his head to the two of them, leading them up to the door and shoving it open, finding his family sitting on the couch staring at the TV with wide eyes.

The small group turned to see their visitor's, faces all drawn with worry. "Bubbie, isn't this terrible?" Sheila said quietly, fingers wringing together as she turned back to the screen.

Kyle took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back and walking in, plopping on the lazy chair adjacent to the couch and biting his lip. "Anything new?"

"No," Ike answered, fingers drumming against his arm. "Nothing else was hit so far... People are still trying to get home."

"Understandably," he murmured, shifting uncomfortably until Kenny came over, resting his hand in his hair and stroking through the curls soothingly. "Do they..." He paused, wincing. "Do they have a count yet?"

"Ten so far," his father said quietly. "Apparently two of the attacks were in parks."

Kyle narrowed his eyes, "At night? Why would they go after a park at _night_? Especially in a city like this?" he gestured to the television.

The man shrugged, looking at his eldest son with tired eyes. "These types of people... We can't know their thought process, Kyle."

The redhead nodded solemnly, getting back onto his feet and rubbing his neck, forcing himself to look away from the array of police and medics ushering people away from wreckage. "I'll... make us some coffee," he muttered, turning on his heel and heading into the kitchen.

Stan and Kenny looked at each other briefly before following after him, watching Kyle moving around almost robotically. "Kyle," Kenny said softly, approaching him with a gentleness to his step. "Babe, you okay?"

He paused for a moment, staring at the filters clutched in his hands. "It's just weird," he murmured, almost to himself.

Stan crossed his arms, staring at his best friend's unease. He could read it as simply as a child's playmat, noting the tense, locked position of his spine. His jaw was clenched just the slightest from the angle he was observing from. He could see his index and middle finger of his right hand tapping against the plastic package he held, a classic indication that he was thinking a little too hard about something. "What's weird?" he pressed, walking up and standing to his side opposite Kenny, both of them looking down at him with concern.

"Why would someone go after a park? They have this huge city with hundreds of thousands of people... And they go after a place that would be nearly abandoned this time of night over there," he said, slowly working to place the filter down into the pot, fingers on a course of their own as his mind drifted with unease.

Kenny shot Stan a look and he nodded in acknowledgement, taking over Kyle's objective while Kenny gently grasped the boy's shoulders, leading him to sit at the kitchen table. He sat beside him, looking at Kyle's studious face and biting his cheek. "Babe, look at me," he said quietly, getting those green eyes locked back in his own. "We may not know why," he said with a meek shrug. "Maybe it was just to scare them."

He frowned, "Then why aren't they coming out and saying who they are?"

Stan turned from flipping on the brewer, leaning against the counter with a shrug. "Maybe they want to be vague about it. You know, 'suspect everyone, trust no one'," he winced.

"Except that no one knows _what_ they're angry about," Kyle insisted. "Are they angry about the fact that it's a predominantly Jewish area? Or that it's Israel in general? Or the economy? Or the politics? Dude, why would they be _so_ fucking vague _,_ especially with such a low death toll so far, you know?" he cringed, guilt eating him from the inside at the words. Low would be _zero_. _That_ would be the perfect number. He sighed to himself, knowing well enough that such dreams were often futile, but in situations like this, one couldn't do much but wish for an alternate reality.

Kenny put his hand on his shoulder and rubbed it gently, "Ky, there isn't always an answer in these kinds of things," he reminded him. "Sometimes people are just..."

"Evil," he finished for him, looking at his boyfriend exhaustively. "Why does this bother me so much?"

He shrugged, "Because you're a good person. It's _okay_ for it to bother you, Dude," he assured him. "Even if it _didn't,_ it'd be okay."

"Right," Stan concurred, making way to sit beside Kenny and stare at him. "You don't always have to feel association. Maybe you just feel obligated to."

Kyle flickered his eyes to his best friend, his lips quirking up in the slightest. "Jewish guilt, Man. It's bred into ya." They both snorted a bit, all three looking to see Ike walking in and plopping down beside his big brother, staring at him in concern.

"You all right?"

"I'm fine," he answered. "Just... curious for a lack of better term," he shrugged. "Are you?"

He nodded, "Is it... is it bad that I care, but at the same time I _don't_?" he winced.

"Nah," he shook his head. "You're fine. It's a place 7,000 miles away that you went to once for a week," he reminded him.

Ike shrugged, scratching through his black hair with a sigh. "Yeah, but... family heritage and shit like that."

Kyle nodded softly, "Ike, I'm caught in the middle of the whole thing, too. I mean... This stuff just happens. It sucks that it does but..." he sighed, tucking hair behind his ear. "That's just the world right now."

"Well, why couldn't this happen to fucking Antarctica?" he rolled his eyes.

"Because even evil assholes think polar bears are cute," Kenny smirked lightly.

Kyle snorted, "Polar bears are from the _North_ arctic, you dumbshit."

He pouted, "Well _excuse me_ for not being an animal scientist."

"Zoologist," he quirked his brow.

Kenny's nose scrunched in slight frustration. "You're _damn_ lucky you're cute."

"Ugh," Ike and Stan both rolled their eyes, shaking their heads at each other. Regardless of the current circumstance, the odds confirmed from the past four years weighed too heavily in the favor of Kenny and Kyle starting to get all over each other.

"Ike, help me get coffee," Stan muttered, hopping up to his feet. "Get away from these touchy assholes."

The teen nodded, "Gladly." He turned to see his older brother looking at him, reading the marred worry hiding under his gaze. He cocked his head slightly. "You sure you're okay, Kyle?"

He blinked himself out of his stupor, nodding, "Yeah. Yeah I'm fine... I just hope it's over," he sighed, looking back out towards the living room. Ike patted his shoulder in the awkward manner that only brothers knew how before walking over to help Stan start dispensing mugs. Kyle twisted his lips, getting to his feet and walking back out into the living room and standing at the back of the couch, leaning down between his parents and clasping his hands together.

"They think it's over," his dad informed him. "Everything that happened happened within five minutes of each other. It's been still for the last twenty."

Kyle hummed in thought, looking back as Kenny walked up beside him, rubbing his spine gently and focusing on the television. "They have any ideas who did it?" the blonde asked softly.

Sheila shook her head, "Not a clue. They can't find anything at the sites."

Kyle narrowed his eyes once more. "Whaddya mean?"

"Apparently teams are scavenging the parks from the detonation sites," Gerald said, looking up at his son and shrugging. "They can't find anything. No shrapnel, no device, no person, nothing."

"What the fuck," he whispered, all of them looking back at a reporter with firefighters in the background informing the viewing audience of statistics and past attacks, claiming speculations of culprits and reiterating the lack of evidence gathered so far.

"Could... they be natural somehow?" Sheila winced. "I mean if they're not finding anything..."

"Doubtful for more than one place," Kyle muttered. "Besides, what would be naturally explosive in a synagogue?"

She slumped a bit, nodding and fiddling with her fingers yet again. "This is terrible."

Kyle patted her shoulder, "Yeah, it is," he agreed. "I'm sure they'll figure it out, Ma."

The woman sighed, placing a hand on his own and squeezing lightly. "Will you come with us this Saturday to temple?" she requested in a pleading tone, unable to look at him as her eyes remained locked at the chaos still flooding the set.

He nodded, "Yeah, of course. I think we all need it right now..." he shot Kenny an apologetic glance and the blonde looked at him wryly before smirking and kissing his cheek, redirecting his chin to rest in Kyle's curls and wrapping his arms around him. Kyle smiled softly, pleased with the forgiveness for him omitting their Saturday ritual of staying in bed fucking around until noon and only getting up to make pancakes with each other. Kenny could read with ease how much Kyle needed this right now, more than happy to stave off their ridiculous tradition for as long as the redhead needed it.

' _No evidence...'_ Kyle thought to himself, keen mind whirring. It just didn't make sense. He bit his lip and sighed to himself. Maybe this was only just a matter of waiting. There had to be _something_ that caused such destruction. _Someone_ was behind this. An overly inquisitive mind was not faring him well for this, his natural need for pure and direct _answers_ was going completely unheeded. He just sighed again, feeling Kenny's lips on his scalp and letting himself indulge in another light grin at the affection.

A sudden, sharp tug at his chest made his eyes shoot wide open, intuition screaming at him to look to his left. He did so, staring out the window with long, slow blinks at nothing but the afternoon sun shimmering through the pane, glittering dust caught in a ballet as they traveled down towards the plush fibers of the carpet. He narrowed his gaze in the slightest, an uneasy feeling worming its way down inside of him like a slender string slivering through his nerves. A chill ran down his spine, shuddering just enough for Kenny to feel him and hug him a little tighter, misreading his reaction as another thought of the events transpiring around the other side of the world.

Kyle let go of a breath he wasn't aware that he was even holding onto, the uncomfortableness subsiding and his focus falling onto Stan and Ike walking out of the kitchen with mugs on plates, handing them out to the lot of them as they all turned their attention back towards the television. The redhead took a long sip of the steaming drink, bringing it back down into his hands and letting his gaze linger on the cream-filled concoction. Another chill racked through him and he fought to ignore it, just biting his lip.

He just wanted answers, that was all this was. Unease within him was just trying to get his nerves in a complete jumble, misfiring in his confusion. Or, at least, that's what he was going to keep telling himself for now.


	3. Tongue of a Disciple

Gleaming, mischievous eyes danced as the desired voice rose volumes above the rest. Speckles of embers rested like gems inside a merlot base, alight with glee at the strength of his reading.

A prayer, simple and true. One spoken from the body of one passed from so long ago, rushing with new blood. Coming from the soul he'd managed to track, to find the energy of a creature crafted by God's own hands and hone in on it, the words rang loud: a plea for violence to end and for God to share His light.

His lips curled into a malicious smile, eyes closing to see a young redhead sitting quietly in a synagogue as God's little chosen one, naively unaware of just what he was to both Him and the devil himself: A good heart, a soul torn asunder by the misfortunes of others, and a purebred lamb ready for the slaughter.

He found him.

* * *

Leaning against the pristine white building with Ike, the brothers watched the shuffle of people heading out and talking in contented discussions over the enlightening morning they'd sat through.

"Ma's pretty glad you came," Ike commented off-handedly, cursing at his phone's battery depletion.

Kyle shrugged, brushing hair back and sighing. "Yeah, I could tell considering how you guys picked me up like I'm ten."

Ike snorted, "Like Kenny would've gotten up this early to take you."

The elder kicked him lightly, "I can drive myself, thanks. Ken's not my chauffeur."

"Maybe he should be. All he seems to do is give you _rides_ ," he drawled, Kyle slamming his palm into the back of his head and the noirette bursting into laughter.

"Really? Fuckin' get out of a service and you pull that shit right off the bat? _Really_?" Kyle stressed.

The boy shrugged, rubbing the impact point and continuing to chuckle. "Look, Man, I dealt with you two keepin' me up all night for years. I've _earned_ my asshole rights."

Kyle blushed before looking off with a scoff, "Whatever. You're just jealous because you were in bed _alone_."

"I was fucking thirteen, Kyle."

He paused, twisting his lips. "Okay, fair point. Still no excuse for being a dickhead _now_." Ike just rolled his eyes amusedly, looking back at his phone to fiddle with the energy-saving properties. Kyle looked at the crowd still coming out, spotting their mother right off with her hair a bright beacon through the mass of people. He glanced around the group she and Gerald were talking to, vaguely recognizing them from the last time he'd trudged alongside them on a Saturday morning. It was never a loss of _interest_ , per se. It was more his interest in oversleeping and waking up to Kenny's dick pressed up against his ass was just a little greater.

"You think Mom thinks comin' back will take the sin out of you?" Ike snickered quietly, knowing from the content look overshadowing Kyle's face just where his mind was.

"Gonna take more than one mass to take care of that," a voice perked up from beside them. They glanced to see Kenny, Stan, and Cartman bringing up the rear walking towards them, a shit-eating grin on Kenny's face.

Kyle shook his head, "Mass is for Catholics, you idiot."

He pouted, "Fuck off, I'm tryin'."

The redhead snorted, walking to his boyfriend, leaning up and pecking his lips softly, "Ain't that the truth." He glanced at his watch and tilted his head. "Wow, you're up before ten. All of you," he smirked at the lot of them. "Any particular reason?"

"Because breakfast," Kenny cooed, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him against his chest.

"Po'boy said you fucks would pay," Cartman commented, glancing uncertainly at the crowd around the building.

Kyle's face dropped, looking at his boyfriend wryly. "You _did_ give Fatboy a limit, right?"

"No steak and eggs," he snorted. He kissed his temple, digging his chin down into his fluffed hair. "Feelin' better?"

He nodded with a small smile, leaning his head under his chin. "Yeah, it was nice. I'd throw Ike through a window for some coffee, though."

"Oh, fuck you," Ike scoffed, kicking the back of his leg. Kenny caught under him as he stumbled and the redhead turned to glare at his little brother.

"I would _highly_ suggest you go back to Ma and Dad," he warned. "For your safety."

"Oooh, watch me _shake_ ," he mocked, waving his hands. He glanced at Kenny's fingers mindlessly tracing Kyle's arms and rolled his eyes. "Okay, you keep on defiling a religious building. I'll tell them you're too busy with Ken's dick stuck up your ass guiding you around to come out with _us_ for breakfast."

Kyle narrowed his eyes, "Look here, you little asshole-"

"Oh look at the time, gotta go," he flipped him off. "Have fun with your little orgy," he waved at the group and turned on his heel to walk back towards their parents.

"Dude, _sick_ ," Stan commented, face scrunching in disgust.

Kenny looked back at him and smirked, whirling Kyle around and starting to lead him away from the synagogue. "Stan, please, admit it, you want dis ass as much as I do," he grabbed Kyle's pointedly.

"Ken, stop it," Kyle hissed, slapping him with the back of his hand.

Cartman cringed nauseously, eyes flickering to a spattering of people lining the sidewalk, "People are fuckin' staring at you, fags."

"Let 'em," Kenny grinned with a wink. "Let 'em _see_ how exciting life is when you walk on the gay side." Kyle put his head into his palm, shaking his head as Kenny continued to nuzzle down against him.

Stan rolled his eyes, "Kyle, you're gonna need surgery to get him off of you."

"Tell me about it," he muttered, smiling under his hand as soft, wet kisses were planted against his neck. Not as though he particularly _minded_ the attention, but he wasn't willing to deal with Stan's incessant whining at 'encouraging' him. Not this early in the morning.

They made their way up to Kenny's truck and Stan snagged Kyle out of his hands. "All right, Kyle's in the back with me, we don't need you making out and crashing us into a fucking electric pole."

Kenny pouted, "We only crashed _once_. And it was not _making out_."

"Then what were you doing?" Stan asked dryly.

"I was giving him a handjob," Kyle said innocently, he and his boyfriend cracking up as their friends turned sickly white on a dime. He shoved his way out of Stan's grip. "And I can do that from the backseat, too, so distance does _not_ make the difference."

Stan and Cartman groaned, the brunette scowling up at Stan. "Why did you convince me to come?"

"Convince my _ass_. Anyone mentions free food and you're shoving old ladies out of your damn way," he drawled as the four of them climbed up into the truck.

Cartman scoffed and flipped him off, Kyle and Ken looking at each other and smirking as the blonde fired up the truck. "Whateva, Hippie," he rolled his eyes. "Excuse me for being a poor student getting a future while Po'Boy's stuck in a dead-end job."

Kyle snapped his head back, glaring daggers at the larger. "Keep in mind that you're calling _Kenny_ poor when he's the only one of us who _has_ money."

"Explains why you're jumpin' on his dick," he batted off, not missing a beat. "Leave it to the Jew to go after the _one_ person he knows his age with a job."

"I swear to _God-_ "

"Ky, Babe, it's good," Kenny chuckled tiredly, carefully maneuvering his way out of the parking lot of the synagogue. "You know he's just jealous that people don't mind money, but they don't wanna be all up on them fat folds."

Cartman quirked a superior brow, "Please. I've been with _plenty_ of women."

"You one of your mom's customer's, too?" Kyle asked dryly, getting a firm smack on the back of his head from the brunette. He hissed, rubbing the victim spot as Cartman continued to glower at him.

He huffed, " _You're_ one to talk about that kind of shit, _Kahl_ ," he bit. "Tell me, _why_ did you date Token in high school?"

"Because he was _nice_ to me?" he blinked at him. "And we got along? It just didn't fucking work out?"

Amber eyes gleamed with mischief, "Yeah, and I bet it _pained you_ to have a boyfriend fucking _make your car payments._ "

"Once!" he snapped. "And I paid him back!"

"With letting him fuck you for two days straight, I remember that," Stan rolled his eyes, recalling Kyle stumbling up to him after the fact worse for wear and doing nothing but sleeping and working the rest of their spring break.

"I'm still in the car, ya know!" Kenny complained, heading down the main stretch of road with a pout.

Kyle groaned, leaning his head back. "No, I _literally_ paid him back. My fucking paycheck just didn't hit before the bill's due date, Jesus fucking _Christ_."

Cartman smirked, "So... The fuckfest was just because you're a giant whore?"

"Only for _me_ ," Kenny snapped. Kyle looked at him with a deadpanned expression, the blonde wincing and giving a shrug. "I love you?"

"It shows," he said, tone flat as his face and leaning back into his seat, watching the world passing them by. Why he continued to associate with the three of them was _far_ beyond him. Well. With Kenny he knew damn well he'd be lost without his stupid redneck charms reeling him in time and again. Stan was practically his damn left arm at this point in their lives. But as for Cartman... Well, then again, he _never_ knew why they associated with him. Kept it interesting, he supposed. Most of what he put them through was better than Stan's pity parties over Wendy at the very least.

Stan sighed, watching his best friend's face from the sideview mirror. "So, goin' help ya any, Ky?"

The redhead snapped back into attention, nodding. "Yeah. I mean, the whole thing wasn't mentioned, like expected, but it was nice to just kind of sit there and remember there's still some good shit in the world, you know?"

"Good," Kenny nodded approvingly, snagging his hand and lacing their fingers together. "You were kinda out of it the last few days."

He shrugged a bit, "I think I'm just restless. School's out and no job and I'm just bored and focusing on whatever I find. Just happened to focus on a pretty shit thing, I guess."

The blonde glanced at him slyly as he turned the truck down into the inner town. "You need a distraction, come find me, Babe. I know _just_ what you can focus on."

"Not while I'm in the car!" Stan snapped, Kenny and Kyle snickering. The noirette rolled his eyes. He'd dealt with _enough_ of the two of them having their hands all over each other the past few years, never seeming to grow out of their initial release of sexual tension when they were nineteen and drunk out of their goddamn minds. If he hadn't had one hand up Wendy's shirt at the time, he probably would've stopped Kenny from dragging Kyle outside and up to that damn treehouse that Clyde's backyard still harbored. Would've prevented a hell of a lot of migraines in his life. The sex he'd had that night _definitely_ wasn't worth missing his opportunity, especially when compared to Kyle nursing a hangover with him the next morning and _gushing_ about the night he'd had.

"Ronny's, guys?" Ken asked, jerking his head towards the approaching restaurant.

"Works for me," Kyle nodded, the other two murmuring their agreements. Kenny took his hand back, swinging the truck into the parking lot and pulling up next to a rusted Odyssey. He scratched through his hair and shot Kyle a reassuring smile, Kyle returning the expression.

"Noooo," Stan said irritably, grabbing Kyle's hair and turning his attention to his door. "Come on, focus on the matter at hand."

Kyle rolled his eyes, unbuckling himself and opening his door. "God _forbid_ we look at each other, Stan."

"That isn't 'looking at each other'," Cartman air-quoted as he and Kenny hopped out of their side and slammed their doors shut. "That's you two fags planning how to sneak off into the bathroom and think no one knows what the fuck you're doing."

Kenny punched his arm, "Well _excuse us_ , Your Majesty. You know, you can just come out and _say_ how jelly you are," he teased as they all met at the bed of the truck and began walking towards the building.

The brunette looked at him with a cocked brow. "Jealous of _what_? No one wants that scrawny Jewrat but _you_ and your shit-ass welfare tastes."

"Well _good_ , because _I_ should be the only one to get him," he said snidely, pulling Kyle in by his shoulders.

Kyle rolled his eyes, "I should probably take that as some kind of compliment, but you pretty much just _agreed_ with him, Ken." He glanced at the glutton caught in the middle of snorting as Kenny blinked in confusion at what was just said. "Remember that I can _still_ kick your ass, Fatboy," he reminded him staunchly. "You may have four hundred pounds on me but that just means you'll make a crater," he said primly.

"Please," Cartman scoffed. "I'd break your back like a twig."

"Only if you fucking sat on me."

Stan groaned and rolled his eyes, stepping up to open the door. "Can you guys chill? For like, five minutes? Just this goddamn _once_?" he pressed. They ignored him, continuing to glare as Kenny shepherded Kyle into the restaurant, Cartman and Stan exchanging a silent threatening match all their own as they stepped in behind them.

"Sit anywhere you like, Boys!" the waitress called from behind the counter with a plastered on customer service smile. They glanced around before Stan began leading the way towards a booth by the window, giving Kenny and Kyle a warning glance.

"If we let you sit on the same side, hands remain _up_ , got it?"

"We're not fucking fifteen, Stan, Jesus," Kyle rolled his eyes and slid into the corner seat, Ken sliding in beside him.

The blonde grinned cheekily, swinging his arm over Kyle's shoulders. "I think Stan's challenging us, personally."

"No," the noirette bit, sliding in across from Kyle to avoid the kicking match that would otherwise ensue with Cartman in the spot. It was a delicate balance and a careful routine that'd been forged throughout the last twenty years, and it was tiresome as hell, but _someone_ had to try to maintain some order.

They all turned in surprise at the waitress hurrying up to their table and placing their menus down. "Name's Laura," she nodded. "Know whatcha want to drink?"

Kyle shrugged, "You have iced coffee?"

She nodded, "Vanilla okay?"

"That'd be _great_ ," he smiled softly.

"Guys?" Ken asked and the other two nodded and he glanced back up with a wink, "Same for us, Sweetheart." She smiled, turning and heading back towards the kitchen. He winced with a hand smacking his arm, looking at Kyle with a pout. "What?"

"Sweetheart?" he repeated. "Fuckin' _really_?"

He twisted his lips, "I called _you_ that once and you nearly broke my nose."

"That doesn't mean call _other people that_ ," he frowned. "Besides, that's demeaning as _fuck_ to her, Ken!"

The blonde glanced back towards the kitchen, smirking at the woman sneaking looks back at him from the coffee maker and pointing towards him, laughing with her coworker. "Seems she's fine with it."

"Well I'm glad _she's_ so cool about it," he seethed through his teeth.

Stan shook his head disapprovingly, "Seriously, Ken, what the actual fuck?"

He glanced around the table at his and Kyle's scowls and Cartman teetering on the edge of hysterics. "Oh come _on_ ," he whined. "You know I ain't interested in Mistress Silicone over there," he waved his hand dismissively. "Call this... an experiment."

Kyle looked at him dryly, "An experiment in how fast I can _neuter you_?"

"You know you'd be just as upset as me if my balls were gone," he pinched his cheek a bit. "Nah, chicks get free drinks and shit flirtin' with waiters, right? Hell, you got yourself loaded on some guy's dime a few weeks ago just by talkin' to him."

"I wasn't _trying_ , I was just being polite. And I didn't know he was fucking gay," Kyle protested. "Besides, _I'm_ not a girl!"

He snorted, "Babe, in that situation, you kinda were."

"Oh _fuck you,_ " he snapped.

Ken chuckled, leaning over and kissing his cheek. "I'm kidding," he assured him. "But nah, I wanna know if I can get a free omelette just by bein' my charming self," he batted his lashes.

The redhead leaned his cheek into his palm and quirked his brow. "Oh? _That's_ who you are? When was _I_ gonna meet this oh-so-charismatic side of you?"

"When there's a ring on this finger, Baby," he wriggled his left hand and winked.

Cartman scoffed, "Stop the gay shit for two minutes, will ya?"

"Be thankful my tongue ain't down his throat, Fatass," Kenny said, pointing at Kyle firmly. "I've usually gotten off about three times bein' awake this long on Saturdays."

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "I should've stayed home," he muttered. "Shoulda stayed home and helped Dad paint the damn garage."

Kyle snorted, "Oh please. You would've been texting me the whole time whining about how stupid he is."

"And Ky would've been so distracted by orgasmic bliss he wouldn't have answered you," Kenny added, tipping his menu towards him in salute. Kyle laughed softly and his best friend glared at him.

"I remember when you used to _berate him_ for talking like that."

"Seasons change, Man," he shrugged innocently. "'Sides, I can't stop him, why the fuck should I waste my energy?" Kenny beamed with pride, squeezing his shoulders and sticking his tongue out at Stan.

The noirette rolled his eyes, "Then why do you fight with _him_?" he jerked his head to Cartman who looked offended at being singled out yet again. "He doesn't stop either."

"Yeah but I hate him," he said smoothly. "Don't hate this moron," he patted Kenny's cheek as the blonde continued to grin toothily. "Not all the time anyway."

"Understandable," Kenny laughed, kissing his temple lightly. They looked up at Laura heading back with a tray of their drinks, lying them down in front of them and grinning.

"Ready?" she asked, looking at Kenny expectantly.

He gave her a sultry smile that made Kyle roll his eyes. "Country omelette," he purred seductively.

The redhead silently snorted, watching him overact in a way he hadn't seen since goddamn high school out of the boy. "Same as him," he jerked his thumb to his idiot boyfriend who continued to smile at the woman.

"Pancakes," Stan shrugged.

"Bacon skillet," Cartman finished up.

"All righty, thanks, Boys," she said, taking the gathered menus from Kenny's hand.

"Oh, no, thank _you,_ Laura," he grinned. She blushed, turning on her heel and heading back away from them.

Kyle shook his head, "Never mind, I no longer care what you call her. If she's falling for _that,_ she probably can't even tie her own shoes. I feel no threat."

Cartman rolled his eyes, "You're really defensive of your territory of _him_?" he stressed, gesturing to the blonde playing with his straw and gnawing on the end of it.

Kyle turned and watched his boyfriend with him, blinking slowly at his gnashing jaw. "For some reason."

"The reason is that you're a retard and so is he," the brunette waved between the both of them. "Obviously you were _made_ for each other, Fags."

Kenny smirked, "Aww, hear that, Ky-Ky? Cartman thinks we're made for each other, Boo."

"Aww, Cartman!" Kyle played along, letting Kenny wrap around him and nuzzle into his hair. "So you'll be there when Snookums and I tie the knot, right?"

"Oh my _god_ ," Stan groaned, slamming his head into his arms atop the table, back shuddering with nausea. Cartman just stared at them, eye twitching and shaking his head slowly.

"Wow. Just... just wow," he muttered. Kenny and Kyle burst into a twittering fit as the two of them sank into their seats with dead glazes layering their eyes.

Kyle grabbed his coffee, taking a sip from the glass and chomping down on an ice cube, grateful for the chill against the stifling heat of his damn dress clothes. He snorted past his drink, reaching forward and patting Stan's head. "Come on, Stan, our hands are above the table."

"Don't call each other those things," he begged. "You ragged on me for calling Wendy fucking Sweetpea."

"Well that's gayer than taking a dick up the ass," Kyle said wryly. "Ken and I said it in _jest_. You were all about those faggy petnames."

He glared, "That's what normal couples _do_."

Kenny shrugged, "We call each other Babe. That's about it for us," he said, pausing and looking up in thought. "Outside of the bedroom of course," he added with a grin. Stan turned to him, eyes narrowing in warning as Cartman continued to shudder and twitch at the display in front of him. Kyle watched his best friend and boyfriend silently warring it out, chuckling to himself. He knew well enough how Stan _resented_ what Kenny had 'turned Kyle into'. Kyle hated to be the one to break it to him, but he was the same when he was with Token, Kenny just helped him be a little more vocal about it all.

He continued sipping away at his coffee and biting down on ice cubes, letting his eyes drift out the window towards the morning sun. He felt another strange twinge in his chest, looking out further past the parking lot towards the woods and nearly jerking back, seeing someone across the road staring straight into the restaurant window, seeming to be looking directly at him. A man of maybe his thirties if his eyes weren't deceiving him. Brown hair, slim build... and wide, directed eyes. He couldn't tell color or expression, but he could _feel_ those eyes. _'The fuck kind of Michael Myers bullshit is this,'_ he thought to himself, continuing to stare back at him. His chest was twisting in on itself, a haze of unease settling around him like a fog as the boys around him continued to banter. The man wasn't moving, standing like a doll and just proceeding to watch the window, watch _him_. He frowned to himself, _'You're being paranoid, he's just waiting for someone_ ,' he thought staunchly. He took another swig of his drink, teeth biting down on another cube before a sharp pain shot throughout his mouth as it broke around the enamel, his eyes widening.

He dropped the coffee, it spilling onto the table and his and Kenny's laps and the group looked at him in shock. "Jesus Christ, you clumsy-ass Jew!" Cartman exclaimed.

Kenny caught his pained expression right off, his surprise falling in lieu of concern. "Ky? You okay?" he asked, ignoring the chill on his legs and putting a comforting hand on his arm.

Kyle whimpered, leaning his head down and spitting, a cascade of blood following a collection of shards of glass breaking through his mouth and clattering on the table in the silence. He clasped his hand over his lips, tongue and gums enveloped in a searing, throbbing agony.

"Oh my god!" Kenny jumped up, snagging an unsullied napkin, helping Kyle out of his seat. His eyes widened as blood began to seep from behind his hand, Kyle's eyes a mar of pain and fright. "Come on, come on," he urged, sliding him out and moving his hand, putting the napkin over his mouth and a hand on the back of his skull. "Keep your head down," he said firmly, beginning to rush him towards the bathroom, other patrons staring at them in surprise. "Stan, get a first aid kit!" he called, the noirette snapping out of his shock and he and Cartman scrambling to get out of their booth and towards the kitchen.

Tears leaked out of Kyle's eyes, entire mind thrown into a frenzy over what'd just happened. He whined at a large throb on the roof of his mouth as Kenny ushered him into the men's room, snaring a collection of paper towels from the sink counter.

"Kyle, Kyle," Ken caught his wavering attention. "Move your head up just a little, keep it angled down." Kyle did as told, breath heaving. "Do _not_ swallow," he demanded. "We gotta make sure it's all out."

He winced and nodded softly, allowing Kenny to pry the napkin from his lips, tossing the blood soaked paper into the sink and snaring a fresh towel, holding it to his chin to catch runaway blood. "Open up," he instructed, grabbing his phone out of his pocket and hurriedly switching on the flashlight as Kyle opened his mouth wider, salted tears leaking down onto his lips. Kenny shone the light between his teeth, eyes widening at a large shard lodged into the roof of his mouth. "Jesus," he whispered. "Okay, Ky," he said, shaking himself out of it and continuing to look for more stray slivers. "Kyle, it's gonna be okay," he assured him worriedly, helping him move to lean back against the wall. He eyed a good sized gash in his tongue, helping him switch towels yet again as the other became coated.

The door burst open, Stan, Cartman, and a worker rushing in and looking in horror at the bloodied mess. "Open the kit and get me the tweezers!" Kenny demanded, Kyle whimpering at the connotation. The blonde's urgent voice dropped as he turned to face him and stroked over his temple soothingly. "I'm gonna get it out, okay? We gotta get it out." Kyle just stared in horror, tears continuing to spring and raspy breaths breaking from his throat. His fingers around the towel trembled, jaw shaking with the need to swallow for air. Kenny caught his struggle as Stan fumbled for his tool, continuing to lull him down. "Shh," he coaxed. "I'm here, okay? Ky, I'm right here, it's gonna be all right." He turned and jerked his head, "Fatass, hold the light."

Cartman blinked before stepping forward and taking the light from Kenny's hand, gazing up to see the protruding glass himself. "Jesus fucking Christ," he said blankly.

"Here!" Stan said, handing the tweezers over to Ken.

"You," Ken directed to the pale-faced worker. "Get me a glass and some salt."

"R-right," he nodded briskly and ran back out of the room.

"Okay, Ky," Kenny said gently, moving the boy's free hand to his shoulder. "Hold on to me, all right?" Kyle just whined in response, head trying to spin from pain and blood loss as Stan came over and helped change the paper towel once more as Kenny moved in with the tweezers.

"Babe, squeeze my shoulder as hard as you need to, but don't close your mouth, all right?" Kenny said desperately, Kyle nodding briskly, just wanting him to get this pain _out_. "Keep the light there," he told Cartman, moving his free hand to gently clasp under Kyle's chin and gently pressing his fingers between his teeth to keep his mouth open. He bent down to find himself a better angle, carefully sliding the metal between the enamel and gripping onto the glass.

Kyle jerked with the added throbbing and cried out, Ken losing the grip and grimacing. "Kyle, you have to trust me, okay?"

"I n-do," Kyle managed to slur out, chest heaving. "I-it hur-nts..."

"I know, Babe, I know," he said sympathetically. "Stan, get behind him and hold him still," Kenny instructed. The boy gulped and nodded, pressing Kyle up off the wall and sliding in behind him, wrapping one arm around Kyle's and placing his other hand in his curls, fingers wrapping around them gently to keep him steady. Kyle whined and Kenny stroked his cheek. "Shh, we gotcha," he promised, going back in with the tweezers. He gritted his teeth as he grasped around it, Kyle taking a shocked gasp of breath and nearly thrashing against Stan's tight hold.

"Okay," he said slowly. "One... two..." He looked up to see Kyle's eyes shut, absolute fear wracking through him. "Three," he hissed, yanking down on the glass and watching it slide out of his gums, a long scream leaving Kyle's mouth as he ripped the obstruction out and tossed it into the sink. "Cartman, keep the light on him," he demanded, reaching up and petting Kyle's hair as sharp eyes continued to look, catching slivers lying on his teeth and tongue and beginning to gently pry them out. "Shh, shhhhh," he continued to try to work him down, heart dropping at the misery befalling him. "Stan, you can let go of him," he murmured. "Help with his towel."

"Right," Stan nodded, gently unwinding from him and helping him lean back against the wall, swapping out towels and trying not to vomit at the overwhelming amount of ruby cascading down Kyle's chin and neck onto his pressed, white shirt.

The worker came back into the room with Kenny's requested items and the blonde glared at him. "Hope you fucks are ready to get sued to high Hell," he hissed, the man wincing.

"Is he all right?"

"Does he _look_ all right?" Stan demanded.

Kenny gently placed a hand on Kyle's shoulder, moving him towards the sink and pressing his head down. "Keep it down, Kyle," he instructed, snagging the salt shaker and unscrewing the top, pouring a few tablespoons worth into the glass and filling it with lukewarm water. "All right, Babe," he said, "swish."

Kyle nodded, shakily trying to take the glass, hand trembling too much to get much of a grip and vision beginning to blur from pain. Kenny grimaced, tilting his head up in the slightest and holding the glass against his lips, "Don't swallow," he reminded him. "We gotta do this a few times." Kyle scrunched his eyes shut, letting the mixture pass into his mouth and resisting the urge to gag at the taste.

He clenched around the edge of the sink, letting the mix run through his wounds, torn tongue directing the tide and entire mouth alit with fire. He groaned, jaw creaking open to let the concoction gush out of his mouth into the porcelain in a pink torrent. He coughed, shoulders trembling as Kenny pressed the glass up to him again. "You gotta keep goin', Kyle," he said worriedly. "It'll help."

Kyle sniffled and nodded, finally able to work his fingers enough to grip at the glass and get himself his dosage. Tears slid down his rouge-stained cheeks as he moved the water around his pulsating mouth, feeling Kenny rubbing his back and shoulder and cooing at him, not able to comprehend the words, but feeling the comfort nonetheless.

Stan turned from his best friend to the man behind them and sneered, "Why the **fuck** was there glass in his fucking drink?!" he demanded.

"I-I don't know," he insisted, scratching through his hair. "Was the glass he was drinking out of broken?"

"Even this stupid ass Jew isn't dumb enough to drink out of a broken glass," Cartman rolled his eyes, watching as Kyle continued to shake and try to get himself functional again.

Kenny reached into the first aid kit with his free hand, snaring stark-white gauze and taking it out of the hold. He grabbed the medical scissors, snipping off two-inch strips at a time and lying them on the counter as Kyle continued to rinse. "Guys, go take pictures of the glass," he demanded, the two of them looking at each other and nodding, heading out of the bathroom and leaving the three together. Kenny lied down his materials, looking at the man and scowling. "You a waiter?"

"Manager," he said meekly. "Look, I promise, we'll find out what happened."

"You damn well _better_ ," he hissed, blue eyes screaming threats. His expression softened as Kyle reached back and grabbed his arm urgent. "What is it, Ky?" he asked gently.

"I...wan...docer..." he worked out, trying to prevent as much tongue movement as possible.

Kenny nodded briskly, grabbing a square of gauze and folding it up. "You think you got all the glass out?" Kyle nodded, eyes sliding up to meet his boyfriend's. He watched Kenny's face falling pitiably, reaching down with the gauze to hand to him. "Here, Babe," he said quietly, watching him slide the fabric into his mouth and slowly close his jaw.

Kenny stood him up and grabbed more towels, cleaning off his chin and handing him a stack to press against his face. He glared at the manager once more. "I'll be back later, we'll be filling out a report," he informed him, leading Kyle back out of the restroom. The redhead shied down at patrons staring at him with wide, sympathetic eyes, Stan and Cartman waiting at the door for the both of them. Ken glanced up, "You got pictures?"

"Yep," Stan waved his phone pointedly.

He nodded, "Good. We're taking him to urgent care. You're driving," he tossed him the keys to his truck, the four of them filing out of the building, looking at Kyle still shaking and huddling close against Kenny.

The redhead sniffled, eyes flickering up in the sunlight, pupils shrinking at the mysterious brunette across the street still standing there, not a muscle moved. He stared back, blinking rapidly as Kenny moved him upwards to sit in the backseat and shut the door, running to get in on his own side while Stan started up the truck. Kyle and the man kept each other locked before finally, the stranger turned his head and headed back towards the woods.


	4. Eye Towards the Righteous

From deep within the inferno, the sounds were always the same; screams and pleas reigning throughout day and night. Damien had grown accustomed to the symphony over the years of his life, letting them settle kindly within his ears, seat him in the reality of where he was and who he was meant to be.

Across the land he strode, gliding like smoke as he crossed the threshold of flame and spitting ash. He had an air about him that promoted nothing but threat; a constant tension locked throughout his spine that he wore like a glove. He was poised and ready to strike, but he could lull you down before he made his move. That's what he'd thrived on in his few years by his father's side. Learning the tricks of the trade of the morning star was nothing that evaded him in any sense. He knew who they were, who _he_ was.

Born of a chosen jackal enchanted by his father, and molded by brimstone to place in her womb, he'd sprung into the underworld; a _miracle_ they'd called him. Killing his mother upon leaving her body, the creature succumbing to internal bleeding from claws dragging their way out into the light, it had been more than clear what purpose he was bred for. He was to step up to where his father had faltered. He was to reattain the _fear_ that once filled the mortals' hearts with the mere mention of his father's name. Satan himself had grown accustomed to life as he'd let it wither into, but Damien wasn't satisfied.

Damien was _never_ satisfied.

With each new curse learned came five more that spawned from its roots. His abilities seemed never-ending. His life had been filled with tomes and scrolls long since forgotten in the annuls of the bibliotheca nested deep in the outskirts of the sixth circle, inhabited by those who prayed for forgiveness for turning from God in their lifetimes only to be struck down as intended. They were a thing of wonder, mortals. To watch them go about daily life as though they were indestructible, to think nothing of consequence and throw caution to the wind on a consistent basis; it was fascinating. Damien had taken to the occasional viewing of the world above, past the vast cosmos that laid between planes. He was intrigued, entertained, and _disgusted_ all the same.

To watch creatures gifted with such abilities and for them to squander them oh-so-often. Using their knowledge of structure to erect cathedrals and synagogues and mosques. For them to use their violent tendencies to defend _God_ of all things. There were, of course, those who merely feasted for a bite of bone marrow as he himself did, watching life flicker out of an enemy's eyes and finding gratification in their feat. Fighting not for a deity, but for _themselves_. They were Damien's favorites, and the ones that received special treatment from himself upon descending down into the eternal fire.

They didn't have to be his _test subjects._

The antichrist had taken a fancy throughout the last two decades: Target practice for a lack of better term. Each new incantation needed a guinea pig, and he had a never ending supply stepping through the gates. As soon as they were shoved past the stark black iron, corroded and menacing with spires cresting the bars, they were all fair game. They became his _property_ whether they allowed themselves to admit it or not. God had given them free will, but Satan and Damien took it away.

From spawning twisted creatures out of the broken dirt with nothing but words to disemboweling men with a flicker of his eyes, his powers had soared, placed him at the top of the food chain. Even his father couldn't seem to keep up with him, both of them knowing that he remained the ruler of Hell for the mere fact that Damien respected what he once was and didn't want to deal with the _business_ side of Hell on his own. Damien was more than content with how he was, merely wandering around sating his vicious appetite with whatever unfortunate happened to wander out of their allowances in front of him. It was a mutual, silent agreement: When they crossed the gates, they belonged to both of them. When they _ran_ from their punishment, then they were Damien's.

Slowly sauntering through barren land, he found himself at the forefront of a large door, smirking to himself and carelessly flicking his hand to watch it burst open, revealing his father staring at him wide-eyed from behind a desk. The beast frowned, "Learn to _knock_ , Damien." He merely rolled his eyes, stepping inside and kicking the door closed behind him. He made way up to his father, gliding seamlessly over the dusted floor. "What is it?" his father asked.

"I believe I've found him," he said, cruel smile curling up his lips.

Satan paused, staring at the malicious joy spreading on his child's face. He gulped, knowing full and well where this conversation was headed. He'd both anticipated and _dreaded_ this coming moment throughout the last twenty-odd years. "How?" he finally managed to work out.

Damien shrugged, a lazy half-rise of his shoulder. This was nothing but a game to him, the same as it'd been so very long ago for his father before him. "Reincarnation tends to leave... _virtues_ of a past life within the new body, correct?" he asked, deep merlot eyes half-lidded in a sly nature.

"Right...?" he nodded slowly.

He smacked his lips, tucking a strand of thick black hair behind his ear. "Your little _Nuri_ was of Hebrew descent."

Satan narrowed his eyes, "And?"

"Had to figure that he'd be passed down into one of similar heritage," he smirked. "Didn't take much to narrow him down. Blow up some grass in Israel and make damn well sure it's being broadcast worldwide and he was _bound_ to stumble across and feel for his ancestry and reveal himself," he drawled, voice slick and sure. "His _concern_ for his people will lead to his undoing, same as before," he purred.

The demon continued to look down at his son, blinking slowly. A heavy breath expanded a broad chest, fingertips tapping on the desk beneath him. "You found him?" he repeated.

Damien grinned, a spark flashing through those nefarious irises. A simple raising of his arm and snap upwards of his wrist propelled a splash of bright color within the middle of the room. He sighed contentedly, pushing himself up light as air and landing to sit on his father's desk, both of them watching as a view of the world came into play. Damien crossed his legs, leaning back on the palms of his hands as a homey room became a picture before them, hearing distant words echoing from a soft song through the radio. Damien narrowed his eyes in the slightest, willing the image to focus on target: A young redhead sitting quietly on a couch in pajamas, lazily lounging and eyes listlessly scanning through a thick book clutched in slim fingers.

Satan froze. He let his gaze flicker to those curling locks of hair sweeping softly across his head, the piercing basil eyes of centuries passed. Everything was the same, from the slender profile of his jawline to the shape of his nose. Speckles of cinnamon dusted over his cheeks, barely visible aside from where the light hit them just right. He took a long breath, mind placing blood spatter covering the pale face where he'd left it. Damien glanced to his father, a cocky smirk resting on his face. "Well?"

"That's him," he said breathlessly, head shaking slowly. This was the same young man he'd dealt with so long ago, everything, aside from clothing, one and the same. "Down to the letter."

"Good," he nodded approvingly. "He doesn't look like much, certainly didn't take well to glass through the mouth," he commented casually, staring as the boy shifted, crossing his legs and nuzzling himself back against a tangerine throw pillow resting against his shoulder blades.

The beast bit his lip, "Who is he?"

"Kyle Broflovski," he reported. "American. Parents, adopted brother, and a boyfriend. That's all I've gathered so far," he shrugged, flicking a speck of ash resting on his pant leg off and to the ground.

He narrowed his eyes, "Adopted brother, huh?"

"I'm guessing God wants the line to stop with our new little Nuri once again," he smirked. "Prevented additional births to keep the bloodline _pure_ ," Damien rolled his eyes. "Just so he can take the soul and stick it into another unsuspecting _fool_ in another line without it marring up his little plan." He paused, glancing at the beast with another sickening grin. "Though, there is something rather _interesting_ about his boyfriend." Satan cocked his brow and the antichrist shrugged, "You know our little temporary visitor?"

Satan picked up the underlying _annoyance_ lingering on that forked tongue, knowing exactly who it was he was implying. "Kenny," he breathed.

"Yup," he confirmed, lips popping on the word. "Turns out our little anomaly is fucking our little resurrection. Oh _happiest_ of coincidences, wouldn't you say?" he batted his lashes mockingly. "Get to rid myself of two pests at once."

"You can't kill Kenny," he reminded him solemnly.

He scoffed, "Not physically, no. And, to be fair, he means little in the grand scheme of it all. It'll just be fun to watch him break and hold little Nuri's broken corpse."

The devil nodded, long purposeful bobs of his head as he continued to watch the boy he'd left for dead calmly cracking his neck and keeping his attention on his story. He had little to care for about Kenny's involvement, only knowing him as a paperwork nightmare and a decent kid who slipped in and out of life and death like they were separated by a mere curtain of silk. "What are you wanting to do?" he finally asked.

Damien chuckled, tone dark and full of promise. "Well, you told me slow and steady wins the race against people like this."

"Right," he agreed. It was the tried and true method that Nuri had made him _forget_ , had made him _lose_. It was the one regret that was held over his head throughout his reign.

"He's going to be my little Job," he taunted, his father turning to him and blinking in confusion.

Satan twisted his lips, "Job stayed with God."

"Because you didn't set the _right_ trials," he accused sharply. "Taking away material things and giving a man a _skin condition_ does nothing but make him whine and pray for resolution," he scoffed. "Besides, that fool got everything returned to him. God is not so caring of His subjects now."

He sighed, "Then why resurrect Nuri?"

Damien smirked, "Because. He's losing again. Our little rebirth himself said the events I set were 'just how the world is'. Even Nuri's soul itself can't hide him from truths. That pathetic God knows that the world is slipping through His fingers again. The resurgence of the church has long gone and passed, He needed another martyr to win people back to His side."

Satan shook his head, "Religious martyrs mean little in the modern world."

"Only because no one sees what one is dying for," Damien said slyly. "They're merely called crazy. But with this one..." he paused, looking at Kyle's peaceful face and another grin crept up his lips. "This one won't be treated so kindly as Job. He'll lose _himself_ in the end of it all. And then he'll lose God."

"So they'll think _he's_ crazy-"

"And then I'll go to him and strike him down for the world to see," he finished, forked tongue dashing across glistening fangs. Satan stared at him with wide eyes, seeing the cogs turning in his child's head and _feeling_ the malice around them in a sinuous storm, the eye hovering over Kyle and closing in on him _fast_. "You made a mistake killing Nuri in secret," he commented. "He's a folklore, not a definitive event. With today's world, where _everything_ is recorded and preserved as fact... No one will doubt that you're here," he said insidiously. "And God could send a _legion_ of foxes to us and it wouldn't make a difference. The doubt will be settled and the earth will break under their feet. No one will think they can escape you. Not anymore."

The confidence was nearly overwhelming, but each smoothly played syllable rang through the room, echoing as a victorious acclamation. The cacophony of Damien's motives sailed through the air, sharp and precise as the ten claws resting on the ends of long, bony fingers.

"And if he doesn't fall?" Satan asked quietly.

Damien chuckled, "There's only so much one mortal can take. As I said, materialism isn't the goal. It's taking him down from the _inside_. I have my methods, and I already laid down my foundations. It'll be a game of misfortunes that befall him one after the other until he just can't take it anymore. I'll watch him scratch, then crack, and then _shatter_ ," he promised. "It's only a matter of patience. You've waited a few thousand years for this, what's another few months if that much?" he cocked his brow amusedly. Satan smirked back, the both of them turning to watch Kyle sigh and shift on his cushion, leisurely flipping his page and settling comfortably. Two sets of dark eyes sparkled against the glowing light of the portal. It was only a matter of waiting, of biding time while the fox outthought itself in the midst of madness and drove itself back into the burrow.

Slow and steady wins the race.

* * *

Kyle winced as his jaw was forced to stretch as he yawned, sore tongue swiping over the dissolvable stitches lining the roof of his mouth. He hissed at the throbbing begging to worm its way back into place, reaching behind him to the end table and swiping a translucent orange bottle from its resting place. A good, _strong_ dose of Percocet. He looked down at the label _'take as needed every three to six hours'_. He glanced at the dvd player clock, catching the 5:30 and counting back. He'd taken one at noon if he recalled correctly, perfectly safe to pop another dose. The redhead sighed, mindlessly going about uncapping the bottle and reaching back for his water.

At least another two days of pain and another week at the least of these damn stitches. Another week of feeling like a Brillo was strapped to the roof of his mouth, scraping at his healing tongue and making eating and drinking a chore. He groaned, shoving his pill into his mouth with a sip of water and forcing gravity to aid him along in getting the damn thing down his throat.

He finally got himself to swallow successfully, wiping lost liquid trickling down the side of his lips with the back of his hand. He hated being on pain pills, never one for physical _proof_ that he was enduring any kind of turmoil. But this one didn't leave him an option, the emergency oral surgeon telling him that without pills, eating would be absolute _agony_.

Another fledgling passage of guilt cut through him, remembering all at once Kenny and Stan's absolute panic rushing him into the urgent care building and Ken nearly shaking down the receptionist trying to get him help. Cartman had just watched, laughing and only providing help when Kenny threatened him after Kyle tried for the third time to fall over from the blood loss. A lethal combination of low blood sugar and his mouth gushing for nearly a half hour had rendered him all but unconscious, hazily going through the motions as Kenny had frantically told the doctor what'd happened. A vague recollection of the surgeon's astonishment at the story lingered in the back of his mind, remembering only how the man found it so _odd_ how the glass had shot straight up but there were no concurrent cuts on his tongue and gums to line up with it. 'A one in a million shot' he'd called it. Kyle shook his head. He had a tendency to beat the odds throughout his life, but this time it was pushing it a little far.

The doorknob jingling caught his attention, looking over to see Kenny shoving it open, arms full with bags. He blinked, going to stand and help before Kenny shot him a glare. "You stay on that goddamn couch, or I swear to God I'll tie you down to the bed."

Kyle smirked, "That a promise? Wouldn't be the first time."

He rolled his eyes amusedly, kicking the door shut behind him and stumbling into the living room. "So, how's that talented little mouth I love so much?" he cooed.

He snorted, "Hurts, but my tongue is better."

"Lemme see," he instructed. Kyle stuck his tongue out and he nodded satisfactorily, "Good. You eat?" he asked, sitting down next to him.

Kyle shrugged, tucking hair behind his ear, "I had some pudding?"

Kenny frowned, "Any _real_ food?"

"I can't eat _real food_ ," he reminded him dryly. "I took a bite of a carrot and nearly fell the fuck over it hurt so much," he pouted.

The blonde smiled sadly, kissing his cheek and reaching down to fumble in his bags. "Well that's why I bought you _this_ ," he grinned, handing Kyle a chilled container stored in a well-hidden cup holder.

Kyle glanced at the frozen treat in his hand and smiled, "A milkshake? I didn't get my tonsils taken out or something."

He shrugged, "Still a mouth thing."

He smirked, taking off the lid and taking a small sip of the delicacy. "What if I get mouth herpes? Do I get a milkshake then?"

"No, you get a pissed-to-fuck ex boyfriend because _I_ sure as hell ain't the one givin' you herpes," he cocked his brow. Kyle laughed softly, nodding in agreement as Kenny continued to search through his goodies. "Stopped at the deli," he said offhandedly. "Got us soup for dinner."

Kyle watched him taking large styrofoam containers out of their holders and sighed, "I could've made us soup, Ken."

"You ain't doin' _shit_ until you're better," he said firmly.

He frowned, "Ken, it's just my _mouth_ ," he reiterated. "I didn't break my leg."

"No, but you're still hopped up on pain pills. Besides, if _anyone's_ legs are gonna be broken, it's that fucking manager's," he frowned, the younger cocking his head.

"What are you talking about?"

He sighed, snagging his own milkshake and kicking off his shoes, lounging back on the couch tiredly. "Stopped at the diner before I went to get dinner," he waved towards the soup bowls aimlessly. "They're trying to get us to call off the lawsuit."

Kyle groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Ken, I told you I don't want to do that."

Kenny turned and watched him sternly, "Why not? Your dad is willing to help us. You got super fucking hurt."

"I'm _fine_ and my parent's insurance covered most of it," he reminded him tiredly. "Besides, Fatass will never stop the 'Jews going for the easy money'," he mocked, waving his free hand around bonelessly. "I kind of just wanna put it behind us," he winced. "Besides, they have pretty fuckin' great omelets."

The blonde cocked his brow, watching Kyle taking a slow sip of his frozen treat, face dropping as he struggled to work it down as painlessly as possible. "You'd really want to go _back_?' he questioned skeptically.

"I mean, not right _now_ ," he shrugged. "But one unfortunate mishap isn't enough for me to go on a full-on rampage. I just won't get ice in my drinks anymore," he shot a half-hearted crooked smile at his boyfriend.

Kenny sighed, shaking his head. "They can't figure out where it came from," he muttered. "They couldn't find any other broken glass."

"Maybe it was your little girlfriend," he teased, watching Kenny's face drooping farther and quickly sitting up. "I'm _kidding_ ," he insisted. "I'm sure that it was just... in the ice bag or something," he shrugged. Kenny continued staring at their coffee table dejectedly and the redhead rolled his eyes, setting his milkshake behind him. He lazily lobbed forward, wrapping his arms around Kenny's shoulders, "It's fine, Ken," he said softly, pressing his head down against his throat. "Everything's fine."

"Except, ya know, your _mouth_ ," he drawled, looking up at him tiredly.

Kyle scoffed light-heartedly. "I think we all know well enough my mouth has never exactly made for a safe asset."

Kenny chuckled, planting a soft kiss against his cheek. "Yeah, but usually it's _your_ fault that it goes that way."

He snorted. "Look, people find snake heads in cans of green beans and fingers in carrot bags all the time, okay? I just got a shit end of the deal, but it'll all be fine."

"Hm," he mused quietly, twisting to set his milkshake on the table before snapping his hand up to lace fingers through ember curls, letting them dance around his skin like flames. He tilted Kyle's head a bit, pressing a small kiss on the crook of his neck. Kyle hummed appreciatively, running a hand up Kenny's back, fingers curling around his shoulder. He moved his head further to the side, letting Kenny push closer against him, teeth lightly scraping along his throat and clavicle. "How bad are you feelin'?" Kenny urged, muffled by skin.

Kyle smirked, pressing his cheek against Kenny's temple and sighing contentedly as the blonde continued to work his flesh. "I could use a pick-me-up," he said offhandedly.

Ken chuckled, "I _brought_ you a milkshake. Isn't _that_ a pick-me-up?"

He pouted, "Maybe I want something _warmer_."

"I'll go stick the soup in the microwave then," he said, pulling back and going to move away before a hand caught his collar and kept him in place. He grinned childishly at the scowl on Kyle's face.

"Don't be a _dick_ ," he seethed, pushing him back onto the plush evergreen cushion, scrubbed down countless times from its purchase at the secondhand furniture store and smelling of lavender Febreze, crawling overtop of him.

Kenny laughed, oofing as Kyle plopped down on top of him, refusing to let him move away. He ran his hands up Kyle's waist, smiling as Kyle softly pecked his lips, both of them reminding themselves staunchly to keep the tongues to themselves. At least in _this_ regard. "How am I bein' a dick?" he asked innocently.

Kyle pressed his forehead atop the blonde's and whined softly. "Make me feel better."

"According to you, you're _fine_ ," he reminded him.

"There's always room for improvement," he said smartly, slim fingers trailing up Kenny's stomach and chest, playing with the soft folds of his shirt wrinkled and smelling of motor oil from work. The scent rarely bothered Kyle, too busy lost in the memory of when he first found himself attracted to the blonde as he fixed up his car, coming from under the vehicle with his face smeared with grease; his _battle bruises_ as he liked to call them. Hair mussed, thin layer of sweat over him from the stifling work and clothes sticking to him in _just_ the right ways made the boy from the wrong side of the tracks a goddamn nightly fantasy. It was a _trope,_ as Stan had told him with that trademarked scoff and eye roll at Kyle's not-so-subtle ogling: The boy from the straight-laced homestead and the straight A's falling for the kid who liked to see how well he could deep-throat a bottle of Coors. Cliches pushed aside, it didn't take too long until drunk Kyle made his approach, not that sober Kyle minded the audacity with the results it'd procured him.

Kenny smirked self-righteously. "Except with me, right? Because I'm _perfect_."

"Uh huh," he said dryly. "And I'm king of the mole people."

"Well, Your Highness, do I need to make an appointment with the court to see your chambers?" he asked, lashes batting.

He snorted lightly, fingers trailing up through hair fine as straw. "How about you just be my official concubine?"

"Wouldn't that be the _other_ way around?"

"Look, let's not get into technicalities," he said wryly, yelping softly as Kenny slapped his hand down onto his ass, squeezing the skin and wriggling his brows.

Kenny leaned up, nipping his lip slightly and laughing warmly against his skin. "Your mouth is pretty useless right now."

"But _yours_ isn't," he hinted.

"Bossy bossy," he teased, wrapping his arms around him and leading him up, switching their positions and watching Kyle land against the arm of the sofa with a loud grunt of annoyance. "But..." he kissed his forehead, fingers digging under the waistband of Kyle's University of Colorado pajamas, "I _suppose_ I can help my poor little inpatient feel better," he feigned a pout, yanking his pants down and shooting him a saucy smile. Kyle grinned back, eagerly welcoming a heat-seated kiss against his lips, skin tingling with excitement as Kenny pulled away, beginning to brush down his chin and torso, guided with a light hand entangled in his hair. Kyle sighed happily as a practiced mouth played on his thighs, teeth leaving pretty little huckleberry marks as Kenny painted himself a picture with his skin.

A combination of his medicine kicking in, a light buzz from the frosted mocha milkshake, and Kenny's ever-loving touch made the coarse stitches seem to fade, his frustrations melting away. Barely a thought was paid as Kenny wrestled his pants off his slender legs, tossing them across the room and trailing a hot tongue over half-masted skin. The redhead moaned hazily, looking to see Kenny's own eyes smoldering with satisfaction at the noise as he opened his mouth to begin his work. Kyle smiled crookedly, leaning his head back and letting himself sink into the moment.

This is what Kenny was best at: Letting him forget everything wrong, even for just a short period of time. Letting him cradle him and guide him through the motions, not having to spare much more than a thought of his own here or there. He grinned to himself, jaw trembling in pleasure as Kenny's mouth and tongue went along on their practiced course. This was _just_ what he needed.

* * *

Off on his own in his room, Damien watched the show before him, eyes lingering on Kyle's mollified face, the absolute _joy_ exuding where before there was nothing but pain and _boredom_. He noted the redhead's fingers curling in Kenny's hair, the quiet sounds coming from the back of his throat. A soft, whining noise took precedence, Kyle tugging on Kenny's hair incessantly and urging him up.

The blonde pulled off of Kyle's cock with a loud _pop_. _"Yessssss?"_ he teased before Kyle yanked him forward, crashing their faces together. Kenny grinned, both of them moving to one another's necks in a flawless, nearly _timed_ swoop of their heads as Ken worked to rid himself of his own pants, the both of them keeping clutched around one another; Refusing to lose the heat, the contact, the raw lust building between the both of them like a thick fog that clouded the small, suburban room.

Damien's sights locked back on Kyle, watching him panting and nuzzling down into Kenny's shoulder, moaning loudly and clawing at his taller boyfriend impatiently. He observed him arching up, legs tightening around Kenny's hips and pressing himself against the revealed skin. _"Kenny... please,"_ he whimpered, Kenny nodding and blindly fumbling in their end-table drawer for supplies.

The demon's lips curled, dangerous claws clacking against the table he was leaning against and an excitement building within him unlike he'd ever felt before.

This was about to get a _lot_ more interesting.


End file.
